Hard Times Come Again No More
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: A patchwork quilt of different comforts that mean a lot to Sam in his and Dean's hunter retirement. Part of my Wyoming series. Sam and Dean are queerplatonic life partners.
1. Chapter 1

AN: This universe just won't let me go, you guys. And I'm not complaining.

No idea how long this fic will be.

* * *

Part 1

* * *

The Big Piney General Store looks like it was built in the Old West days. The wooden floor boards and shelves are faded, along with the wooden check-out counter. The walls are sparsely decorated with a couple Wyoming license plates, the state flag, a stag head, horse shoes, and a Gil Elvgren poster print of a pouting cowgirl holding a lasso and wearing a yellow blouse, red pants, and white boots. Although the general store stopped offering P.O. boxes in the early 2000s, the old cubby holes remain attached to the side wall behind the counter. There's a little silver bell on the door that jingles every time anyone comes in or goes out. In December, the store is decorated with string lights and a live wreath on the door, a mini Christmas tree on the counter and stockings hung on nails in the wall.

The store sells postage stamps, loose leaf lined paper, pens, engine oil, tire chains, five pound sacks of road salt, fireplace logs, knife sharpeners, bars of soap—some of which is locally made, pain medication, band-aids, toothbrushes, toothpaste, light bulbs, batteries, razors, deodorant, scented candles, laundry detergent. There's sugar, coffee, four brands of flour, baking soda, chocolate chips, cereal, oatmeal, trail mix, a spice rack, cans of nuts, pickles, local honey, sliced bread, dinner rolls baked and sold by a local resident, soup cans, peanut butter, eight kinds of homemade jam, barrels of apples and potatoes and onions. A limited amount of perishable goods are stored in one cooler near the back on the eastern wall: milk, cream, orange juice, iced tea, butter, lemonade, eggs, and soda cans. Up at the check-out counter, there are cigarettes and chewing tobacco, plastic lighters and basic Zippos, butane fuel, pocket knives, key chains, mini flashlights, chewing gum, and boxes of ammo for shotguns and rifles. There's a periodical stand with a smattering of magazines and newspapers, including the Wyoming Tribune-Eagle and the Pinedale Roundup.

His first winter in Wyoming, Sam goes into the store one afternoon looking for coffee and notices the tea selection. There are boxes of tea bags, the same common brands sold in just about any grocery store, but there are also more expensive, less widely available brands in attractive packaging. A few of the teas are loose leaf: black rose, earl grey, lemon green, a sleep blend of chamomile and lavender. He chooses the rose tea and the sleep tea, after reading the labels on every flavor and standing before the shelves for a long minute or two. He tucks one bag in his right arm next to the coffee can and holds the other bag in his opposite hand.

He asks the clerk if the store sells tea strainers, and the clerk shows him the one and only strainer they stock, a basic metal item with fine mesh that will sit on the rim of most mugs and glasses. Sam throws it in his pile, along with a bag of Peanut M&Ms for Dean.

It isn't until he's ten minutes down the road outside of town that he realizes they don't have a kettle.

* * *

Wyoming winters are long and brutal, snowfall heavy and frequent, the cold so biting sometimes that people have to cover every inch of skin except the area around their eyes when they go outside even for ten minutes. Sam and Dean aren't used to it, although they've seen their fair share of cold places in the States during their hunting career. Dean hates it more than Sam does, seems to feel it more too. He bitches about the cold, the snow, the wind and freezing rain almost daily from November until spring finally breaks in May.

Hot tea becomes a staple for Sam during the winter after that first purchase at the general store. The following year, he's already got a small collection of teas accumulating in the pantry that continues to grow and change over time. He orders it online, buys it whenever he's in Rock Springs, returns to the general store in Big Piney for the loose leaf blends. He drinks tea almost every day, usually in the evenings, when it's cold outside. Dean teases him about it at first, but eventually even he gives into drinking the stuff. He comes down with a nasty cold that first winter that turns into bronchitis after two weeks, and Sam mainlines tea into his brother like it's got actual healing properties. After that, Dean is a lot less resistant to drinking it on occasion.

Tea is comforting, Sam finds. He likes to brew himself one or two cups when he's settling in with a book or other reading material. He makes tea when he's sad or when something's on his mind. He drinks a lot of it when he's sick and asks for it when he's in pain. He brews tea when Dean or Cas is ill, down in the dumps, anxious, worried, or disappointed—which fortunately isn't often after their first few years in Wyoming, once Dean gets his depression and PTSD under control. He makes tea for Leah whenever she's in need of comfort and invites him to her house for a talk. She smiles at him the first time he does it, calls him sweet.

His brother prefers hot apple cider, often spiked with bourbon, or coffee during the winter months. Dean can drink coffee at any time of the day or night, and he'll empty the morning pot into a thermos and take it to work, even after drinking a mug of it. Sam orders him some fancy coffee beans for Christmas one year and after that, Dean starts experimenting and collecting good coffee the same way Sam does with tea.

There isn't a Starbucks in town—the nearest one is an hour and a half away in Jackson—so Sam learns to make do with diner coffee and homebrewed tea.

* * *

On a gloomy day in early April, right around the one year anniversary of the Winchesters' move to Wyoming, Sam wakes up early and slips into the kitchen, past Dean's bedroom door. He looks at the calendar tacked to the wall next to the refrigerator, sees the anniversary day that Dean circled in red marker where he wrote ONE YEAR!, and feels some kind of depression settle over him like snow on a pine tree. He fills the kettle with tap water, which comes from the well dug deep on their property, and starts it boiling, standing before the kitchen sink with his arms crossed and looking out the window.

He woke up sad, and he doesn't know why. He knows that he and Dean have been going through some kind of process since they got here, experiencing emotions they suppressed for decades, and he understands that it's hitting them in waves, layers peeling away one by one as they get closer and closer to some kind of core. But he doesn't like it when he can't make sense of his own feelings. It reminds him too much of being possessed. If he's sad, there should be a reason—and he almost laughs to himself as soon as he thinks that because the problem probably is that there are too many reasons, even if they're all years old.

He's been thinking a lot lately about finding a therapist. He's pretty sure he needs one and wants one, but the trouble is that he can't talk about anything that matters with somebody who is unaware of the supernatural. Even trying to get through one session with elaborate lies and made-up stories about a life he never lived, to talk about the one he did, would exhaust him. He can't make any real progress without laying it all out for his counselor. There should be ex-psychologists turned hunters willing to serve other hunters, and maybe there are a couple. But even though he's only a year removed from hunting, even though he's Sam Winchester, reaching out to someone from his old world doesn't feel right or possible.

For now, he's at an impasse.

He spoons some loose leaf rose tea into the strainer and pours the hot water over it, into the mug. He watches as the tea leaves and rose petals expand, steam rising from the mug. He steeps the tea for five minutes, then moves the strainer to an empty glass and takes his mug to the kitchen table, sitting with his back to the entrance of the room. As he waits for his tea to cool, he tries not think about any of the traumatic crap of his past or worry about how he's going to recover for real without any professional help. He tries not to think about Dean either because he's almost more worried about his brother's mental health than he is about his own. It doesn't help that Dean, same as ever, refuses to acknowledge that he even needs help.

"Hey," Dean says in his husky morning voice, shuffling into the kitchen.

Sam peers over his shoulder. "Hey. You're up early."

"So are you." Dean pulls the carafe off the heating plate in the coffee machine and fills it with water in the sink.

Sam watches him, touching his tea mug with his fingertips to test the heat.

Dean pours the water into the coffee maker reservoir and sticks the carafe back on the heating plate. He opens up the bag of coffee grounds that they keep on the counter and starts filling up the filter. "You sleep okay?" he asks. He still looks half-asleep himself, like he could go straight back to bed with that coffee.

"Yeah," Sam says. "Fine."

Dean glances at him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

Dean switches the coffee maker on and sits across the table from Sam. "Sam, after all these years, you're going to have try harder than that if you want me to believe you."

Sam purses his mouth and wraps his hand around the handle of his mug, leaning back in his chair. "I just woke up in a bad mood, okay? It's no big deal."

"That may be true, but I know you. You're brooding about something. Or trying not to. So what is it?"

Sam sighs. His brother's like a dog who won't stop gnawing on a bone, sometimes—but then again, Sam's always been like that even more. "I just want a therapist I can actually talk to, that's all. I know you think therapy's for crybabies, but spare me the criticism."

Dean pauses for a moment, as the coffee percolates behind him, the sound filling the kitchen. "I'm not going to give you a hard time," he says. "Just because it's not for me, doesn't mean you shouldn't try it if you want."

Sam looks at him, a little surprised. "Yeah, well—that's the problem. I can't. Not without pretending to be someone I'm not and keeping all the shit I need to work through a secret. And I guess even if I could be honest about what I've been through, my therapist wouldn't know how to help me anyway because... because they've never treated anyone who's been through the same things. There's no protocol for counseling someone who's been to Hell, literally."

The coffeemaker goes quiet, but Dean doesn't get up. He looks at Sam and doesn't reply at first. "Yeah, but—trauma is trauma. Isn't it? I mean, PTSD, anxiety, depression, whatever—it's all the same crap, at the end of the day. It doesn't matter what yours is about, at least not the person treating you. The way they treat the problem is the same, whatever the cause. So maybe a civilian therapist would be able to do more for you than you think."

He's got a point.

"If I could tell the truth," Sam says. "But I can't, and if I can't, then what's the point? I don't want to dance around the real issues. That's all we've ever done. It'd be a waste of my time, going to therapy and doing that."

He sips his tea, which is hot but drinkable.

Dean gets up to pour himself a cup of coffee and returns to his seat with it. He looks at Sam for a little while, coffee steaming before him. "You could talk to me," he says.

Sam just stares at him. He spent years wishing he could do just that, wishing that Dean would talk to him too. But now, as earnest as Dean is about offering to listen, Sam knows that his brother is in no shape to help Sam slog through a lifetime's worth of pain and trauma in any kind of productive fashion.

Dean looks down into his coffee.

"Dean," Sam says. "It's not that I don't want to talk to you. It's just... you're not a mental health professional. You can comfort me and you can understand, better than anyone, but... that's not the same thing as helping me get better, you know?"

Dean glances up at him. "Yeah, I guess," he says.

Sam almost sighs again and rubs at his forehead with one hand. "Anyway, don't worry about it. I'm just in a funk today. It'll pass."

They sit there in silence for the next several minutes, drinking their coffee and tea.

Dean gets up to go put his empty mug in the sink, and even though Sam's finished too, he stays in his seat.

"You going back to bed?" he asks.

"Nah," Dean says. "Think I'll go for a walk or something."

Sam nods.

Dean passes him by on his way out of the kitchen, then stops. Sam listens to him coming back toward the table. He steps up behind him and grasps Sam's shoulders in his hands, grip as firm as it's always been. Sam tenses in surprise, just for a few seconds, before relaxing into his brother's touch. Dean starts massaging Sam's shoulders, moving his hands back and forth along their wide expanse. Sam isn't half as beefed up with muscle as he once was in his twenties, although he does continue to work out, but his frame is just as big as it's always been. Dean sometimes nags at him about not eating enough, and Sam has to remind him that he's not a hunter anymore, which is the real reason he's thinned out so much.

Sam closes his eyes as Dean kneads his muscles. It feels really good, all that gentle strength in Dean's hands. He holds back a noise of pleasure when Dean rubs his neck, digging along the base of Sam's skull with his thumbs.

"You'll be okay," Dean says, his voice deep in the quiet kitchen.

It's just as much of a wish as a claim. Sam can hear it.

Dean's hands fall away, and Sam almost asks his brother to stay and keep massaging.

Instead, he lets the other man disappear to his bedroom. He decides to pour himself another cup of tea and do some reading.

* * *

The second birthday Dean has in Wyoming, Sam buys him a heather gray sweater with a shawl collar. It's not Dean's style, but when Sam saw it online, he decided it would look good on his brother. And more importantly, it would help keep Dean warm. Dean tries the sweater on as soon as he opens the box Sam packed it in, and they're both surprised at how flattering it is on him. It's the softest piece of clothing either one of them owns, Sam's sure of it. He rubs the cuff of one sleeve between his fingers after Dean takes the sweater off, wondering if he should order one in a different color for himself. Dean doesn't say a word about sweaters being uncool.

Six weeks later, in the middle of March, Sam comes home from work to find Dean stretched out on their living room sofa with his eyes closed, hands folded on his belly. He's wearing the sweater, a cream-colored t-shirt peeping out from underneath it. He's got a fire burning in the fireplace. Sam stands near the sofa in silence for a moment and looks at Dean, who looks so relaxed that he might be asleep. He's overcome with love for his brother then, tender and emotional. It's a moment, like so many others he's had since they moved to Wyoming, where he can hardly believe that this is his life now. Everything in it is beautiful, he has a real home, his brother's alive and well and they're together and there's no more hunting, no more danger, no more saving the world. He is so grateful that he can't speak.

Dean opens his eyes and looks right at Sam. "Hey," he says. "Didn't hear you come in. How long you been standing there?"

Sam's mouth wobbles with a smile. "Not long."

"What time is it?"

Sam checks his watch. "Six twenty-five."

Dean pauses, watching him. "You okay?" he says.

Sam nods, his throat still tight with emotion.

"Something happen at work?"

"Dean, I'm fine," Sam says. "What do you want for dinner?"

"I'm making beef stew. You're off for the night." Dean sits up, swings his legs off the sofa, and gets on his feet. He goes around the sofa to where Sam's standing behind it and grabs his brother by the shoulder, looking at him square in the eye.

Sam doesn't know what he's doing, but he looks back.

Dean lets go and passes him on his way to the kitchen.

Sam follows, a few paces behind. He watches Dean pull a couple beers out of the fridge. Dean pulls his key ring out of his back pocket and uses the bottle opener to pop the caps off, before offering one bottle to Sam.

They each take a drink, looking at each other in the brighter light of the kitchen. Sam's emotional surge has passed, though a feeling of tenderness remains in his heart.

"You hungry?" Dean asks.

"Not really?" Sam says. "I had a big lunch a few hours ago. I think I can make it however long it takes you to cook."

Dean nods. "Good." He grabs Sam's wrist and starts leading him back down the long corridor to the other end of the house.

Sam goes along with him, sipping on his beer a couple times, unsure of what's happening.

Dean takes them into his bedroom and lets go of Sam's wrist. Sam sits at the foot of the bed and watches Dean with a skeptical expression.

"What's up?" Sam asks, holding his beer limp in between his knees.

"When's the last time we lay down together?" Dean says.

That's their code for cuddle: "lie down."

Sam blinks. "Uh, I dunno. A few weeks?"

"Damn near a month," says Dean, standing by his dresser. "And I can tell you're jonesing for it, so here we go."

He drinks the rest of his beer in one continuous pull, tipping his head back to get the last drops, then sticks the empty bottle on the dresser top.

Sam raises his eyebrows. "I'm jonesing for it? Last I checked, I was fine."

Dean pulls the sweater off, up over his head, and throws it on the chair in the corner. Now, he's just wearing the thin, cream-colored t-shirt with long sleeves. "Sam, I know you. Unless you've been getting your cuddle on with Leah where I'm not looking, you're probably starting to climb the walls from hug deprivation."

He unbuckles his belt and drops his jeans to the floor, changing into a pair of sweatpants.

Sam snorts as he lifts his beer to his lips. "You know, if you want to cuddle, Dean, you can just ask. I think we're past the point of pretending that I'm the only one who likes it."

"Yeah, see, you like it," says Dean, climbing onto the bed behind Sam. "So why haven't you asked lately?"

Sam doesn't quite shrug, as he drinks again. "I don't know how often is too often for you. I don't want to turn it into a chore."

The truth is, it was a rough winter. Back in November, Sam had a meltdown after forgetting the anniversary of Jessica's death, their mother's death, for the first time. The weather was worse than last year, which exacerbated his depression. Dean's PTSD flared up pretty bad, and in a terrible mood once, he got into a huge fight with Sam over taking his meds. He took off for a motel in another town, didn't come back for a week and didn't speak to Sam at all the whole time, and while he was gone, Sam cried and worried and felt so lonely, he couldn't stand it. Castiel came down with the flu that knocked him on his ass for two weeks and scared the shit out of the brothers. It's just been the longest five months ever, and it seemed like spring would never come, that maybe things were going to stay bad.

But it's starting to warm up again, just a little, and everybody's been better since the break of March. If they can make it to May, they'll be all right, or so Sam tells himself.

Dean is quiet behind him for a moment. "Well, maybe if we talked about it, we'd come up with something that works for both of us."

Sam looks over his shoulder at him, finds Dean looking at him with a softened expression. It isn't that he has a problem talking to his brother; usually, it's the other way around. It's that Dean's been dealing with his mental health issues, the slow emotional processing of his past—just like Sam has—and that's made him at turns fragile, volatile, defensive, guarded, and vulnerable. Half the time, Sam doesn't know how to approach his brother, and he doesn't want to screw it up.

"So how often do you want to do this?" he asks.

Dean stares at him, eyes glinting. He pauses, maybe hesitant to be honest, then says, "Once a week? Maybe?"

Sam's surprised. "Once a week? Really?"

Dean instantly blushes a little. "I mean, if that's too often, we don't have to. I was just throwing out a suggestion..."

"No," Sam says. "No, that's not too often. Sorry, I'm just—I was expecting a different answer. I could do once a week."

"You don't have to agree just because I asked," Dean says. "This is a negotiation."

"I'm not agreeing just to accommodate you. I'd like it if we did this once a week." Sam smiles to reassure his brother, already feeling some kind of relief in his chest. He's wanted more physical closeness with Dean this past month, wanted to hug him and cuddle, but he never mentioned it because he felt like he shouldn't, for one reason or another. He did cuddle with Leah a couple times, but that isn't the same as doing it with Dean.

"Okay," Dean says. "Once a week, it is. Now get over here."

Sam drains his beer and sets the bottle on the floor between his feet. He takes off his boots and gets up, goes around to the empty side of the bed and pauses. "Put your sweater on," he says.

Dean gives him a look.

Sam just waits.

Dean grabs the sweater off the chair and puts it back on, as Sam lies down next to him. He taps Sam's arm with his hand, and Sam takes the hint, rolling away from him onto his side. Dean lies down behind him and wraps his arm around Sam's chest, folding his other arm snug between them and resting his face against Sam's back. They settle into the position together and relax, closing their eyes and growing quiet. They're both quickly soothed by each other's warmth. Sam feels safe with Dean holding him, and all is right in Dean's world with Sam right up against him.

They lie there together unmoving for a long time, until they're both drifting in and out of shallow sleep. Sam shifts, tugs Dean's arm around him a little tighter, covers Dean's hand on his chest with his own and laces his fingers into Dean's. The sleeve of Dean's sweater is so soft, and Sam knows that eventually, he's going to turn around and hold Dean face to face just so he can nuzzle into the sweater.

He missed this. He needed a lot more of it this past winter, and he's willing to bet Dean did too. Sam wishes they would just drop the charades and their inhibitions and be tender with each other all the time. Whenever they do, he always feels better, so much better than the rest of the time. Part of him doesn't understand why they still do anything else. The other part knows that they're shedding a lifetime's worth of stupid rules and habits in layers, bit by bit, and he just needs to be patient.

Even after two years, they're still figuring this out—their relationship, their lives here, who they are without hunting and how to be. They're getting better, Sam can tell, but they still have a lot of healing to do, more bad days ahead of them. And it's hard. In some ways, facing their own and each other's brokenness and trying to recover from it is harder than anything they experienced in their old lives. They used to run away and hide from their personal crap, their relationship crap, in hunting and saving the world. Use one set of problems to avoid the other. Now, they don't have a choice but to deal with their unfinished business, even the old stuff. Sometimes, they can't talk to each other even if they want to, even if they should, and other times, they argue. They brush up against each other's pain, and it hurts more.

But sometimes, they let their guards down and hold each other like this, show up with complete openness and care. This is what's healing them.

Sam rolls over under Dean's arm and faces his brother, wrapping his own arm around Dean's waist, pulling him close and pushing his face into Dean's chest. Dean cradles Sam's head in his hand and holds it to his heart, and Sam curls his fingers into the sweater at Dean's back.

"Sam," Dean says.

Sam doesn't reply, giving his brother the opportunity to say whatever's on his mind.

When Dean doesn't, Sam lets the silence stand.

He doesn't need to hear it to know what Dean means.

* * *

Dean didn't waste any time buying himself a real, decent cowboy hat after they moved into the house. Sam teased him about it for weeks, harping on about Dean's obsession with Westerns and cowboys and that stupid poncho he'd got himself when they time traveled to kill that phoenix. But the more Dean wore the hat, the more Sam couldn't deny that his brother looked good in it, that it suited him somehow. At first, he thought that somebody around town was sure to call Dean out for being a poser, but instead, Sam quickly noticed that cowboy hats and cowboy boots were pretty common in Wyoming, including among folks who had never worked on a ranch in their lives. By the time that first Christmas rolled around, Dean had himself a pair of good cowboy boots to go with the hat, and Sam was about as used to it as he was to Dean's beard.

The following spring, Sam was in a Western wear store, entertaining himself while Dean met up with a woman from Tinder, when he decided to try on a black cowboy hat. He looked at himself wearing it in the mirror, surprised to see that he pulled it off a lot better than he had the last time he wore one as a 20-something year old. The hat fit with his jeans, boots, plaid shirt buttoned down the front, his beard and his long hair brushing his shoulders.

"Looks like a good choice," the older male clerk said, coming up behind Sam.

When Dean's date dropped him off down the street from where Sam waited for him and Dean saw his brother leaning against the Impala wearing the hat, he smiled wide and bright. "Awesome," was all he said.

Sam wears his hat more often than Dean does, now. He wears it in every kind of weather, and now as his fifth year in Wyoming comes to a close, the hat's softened and faded with age and exposure to the elements. He has no idea why he likes it so much.

He's wearing it as he sits behind the wheel of his truck one afternoon, waiting for Dean to come back with his prescription refill of anti-depressants. They carpooled into town today, and Sam just picked his brother up from work fifteen minutes ago. He peers into the driver's side view mirror every couple minutes, watching the pharmacy entrance. It shouldn't take this long for Dean to get his meds, but he's probably screwing around, looking for something to blow money on.

Sam's listening to the one local radio station that sometimes plays music he likes; a soft country song is on now. He casually thinks about what they should have for dinner tonight, looks forward to seeing his and Dean's dog Shooter, contemplates soaking in the epic bath tub that they ordered for Dean a few years ago. He checks the mirror again but still no Dean. He remembers that he needs to tell Dean about going out to the MoL bunker this weekend, to pick up some files and photocopy books. Every few months, Sam makes a trip to Kansas for more supernatural information to add to his digital library and the password-protected hunter's website that he and Dean run. Sometimes, Dean goes to the bunker with him, and sometimes, Sam goes alone. He's got a feeling this weekend, he'll have company.

He glances into the mirror again and sees Dean emerge through the pharmacy's double glass doors clutching a white paper bag in his hand. Dean's grimacing. It makes Sam sit up a little straighter and watch him until Dean swerves out of the mirror's reflection and comes around to the passenger side of Sam's truck. He gets in and sticks the pharmacy bag on the seat between him and Sam.

"You okay?" Sam says.

Dean only looks at him for a second, not trying to hide his frown. "Yeah."

"You sure?"

Dean stares into space, head bowed a little, his expression somber.

"Dean?" Sam says.

His brother looks at him, holding steady eye contact this time. He reaches out and takes Sam's hand in his.

"I'm sorry," Dean says, his voice raspy and quiet.

Sam doesn't pull his hand away from Dean's. "You're scaring me," he says.

Dean shakes his head. "I'm sorry for fucking up so bad with you. In the past. I know this is out of left field, but I woke up this morning in a weird mood. A funky one and it just wouldn't go away. It's been hanging over me like a shadow all day. I thought maybe it was just one of those days, you know? The bad ones. But when I saw you pull up in the truck at the garage, I realized that this crappy feeling is about you. See, a couple weeks ago, I was thinking about our hunting days and... everything that we've been through, and I remembered all those times you chose death or tried to, before I interrupted. And I kept trying to figure out why. Why was he so willing to sacrifice himself, why didn't he want to be saved? And I couldn't think of a good explanation so I forgot about it. But today... today, I think I got it."

Sam's staring at Dean and he feels Dean squeeze his hand and doesn't know how to feel about any of this.

"You were suicidal," Dean says. He looks right into Sam's eyes when he does.

Sam wants to protest but doesn't.

"You were suicidal when you threw yourself into the Cage. Hell, it was suicide. We knew that. And then when you wanted to finish the Trials and afterward, when you were in a coma and I—tricked you into saying yes to Gadreel. I never... I never stopped to analyze it, any of it. And I never asked you how you felt. And I know what you're going to say, you're going to say that we had bigger problems to worry about, but that's not an excuse, Sam. I should've asked you how you felt. I should've stowed my bullshit and been a good brother. It's not just about mindlessly saving you. You told me you didn't want to be saved, and I never asked why. I can't even believe it now."

"Dean," Sam says, without know what will come next.

"Wait," says Dean, tugging at Sam's hand a little. He looks at the other man, and the air inside the cab is thick with vulnerability. "I did so many things wrong with you. Not with the world or the universe. You. Us. And yeah, I was young and stupid and doing the best I knew how. But I could've done so much better. And you deserved better. I was always so hellbent on keeping you alive, keeping you with me, that I never asked myself what I could do to make you want to. And I'm sorry."

Sam's throat hurts with emotion, his eyes suddenly watering as his gut clenches.

"I'm sorry, Sam."

Sam nods.

"I knew it was that bad, but I didn't want to see it," Dean says.

"You know I would never leave you like that," says Sam, his voice breaking. "I would never—not even back then, during all those fucked up years, I never would've left you if there was another way."

Dean swallows, quiet for a moment, holding Sam's hand on his knee. "This isn't about me. This is about you. I never wanted you to be miserable, Sam. Never. And I never wanted you to pay for your mistakes with your life. Your soul. Your mind."

A lone tear rolls over Dean's cheek, as they look at each other.

"I wanted you to be okay," he continues. "I wanted you alive, but I wanted you to be okay too. I just never knew how to make that happen. I couldn't talk to you the way I can now."

Sam squeezes Dean's hand and purses his lips together in a pained kind of smile. "Yeah, well. I'm glad we can talk now."

Dean looks at him, eyes red with unshed tears. "You've suffered so much. I want to help you, but whenever I think about it, I don't know where to start."

"So have you," Sam says. "But you know what? We're better. We're a hell of a lot better than we were five years ago, Dean. And all the progress we've made, we did it together."

Dean drops his gaze and nods.

Sam watches the side of Dean's face, feeling the calluses and worn skin of his brother's hand in his. "I'll never abandon you. I promise."

Dean looks at him again. "I'll never abandon you either."

Sam throws the pharmacy bag into the floor of the truck and slides across the bench seat, pulling his brother into a hug. Dean hugs him back with both arms, hands curling into Sam's jacket. Sam's hand feels heavy on Dean's back, and it's a welcome weight.

"I love you," says Sam, his eyes closed. The sheer power of the feeling leaves him a little breathless.

"Love you too," says Dean, his voice rougher and deeper.

They hold onto each other for a little while longer, before coming apart and returning to the opposite ends of the seat.

Sam shifts the truck into gear, and Dean swipes the cowboy hat off his head, putting it on his own.

They don't speak the whole way home, listening instead to the radio.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: In case you couldn't already tell, these scenes are not in chronological order. I try to give a sense of what year each scene takes place in, relative to the time the boys have been in Wyoming, and I hope that comes across. Just know that these aren't happening in chronological order!

* * *

Part 2

* * *

The only sound in his earshot is Sam's own boots in half a foot of snow, as he moves through the woods surrounding the Winchester property. He has his rifle slung over his shoulder, thumb hooked into the leather strap, and he's wearing his black cowboy hat. Shooter's following him, undeterred by the snow that reaches the middle of his chest. The dog moves quick enough that he never quite sinks all the way to the ground, stopping only on occasion to sniff around for a scent to track or to wait for Sam to catch up.

Sam is not exactly hunting. He decided to go for a long walk and brought the rifle for protection more than anything else. He and Dean have been deer hunting a few times since they moved to Wyoming, and they're pretty good, given that their only prior relevant experience with the sport is monster hunting. Dean seems to like it a lot more than Sam does, and maybe that's because it's the closest thing he's going to get to hunting the supernatural now that he's retired. Sam almost dislikes it; he's always had a soft spot for animals and doesn't enjoy killing anything that's minding its own business and not threatening anyone.

Although Sam's never seen any in the four years he's lived here, moose, bison, black bears, wolves, mountain lions, and coyotes are some of the inhabitants of the Bridger-Teton National Forest, which isn't far from the Winchester's land. Even grizzly bears are a part of the huge forest, although locals assured Sam and Dean that nobody's ever seen one as far south as Big Piney, at least not in recent memory. Most of the other species present don't scare them: elk, mule deer, small game, bighorn sheep, pronghorn, and hundreds of different birds. But Sam would rather be safe than sorry—so when he goes further than a mile from the house on a walk, he brings his rifle and a sharp knife.

Sam pauses and looks back over his shoulder. He can't see the houses or the clearing they're in; he's been walking for about fifteen minutes, going east in a mostly straight line. His footsteps remain imprinted in the snow behind him, an easy trail to follow back.

It still amazes him, how clean the powder is out here. He's never seen snow as white as what blankets these woods, the kind of white that shines in the sun almost bright enough to make him shield his eyes where there isn't tree cover. Even on the flat land surrounding the roads in and out of town, even in Big Piney and Marbleton, the snow stays clean and mostly undisturbed for days after it falls. One of Sam's favorite parts about winter in Wyoming is seeing the town and the houses dotting the wilderness coated in snow with their string lights lit during the holiday season. The sight reminds him of so many Christmas cards and popcorn tins he used to look at as a kid, dreaming of a home just like the ones in the illustrations.

He stops when he hears a noise ahead, cutting through the silence.

A deer stands about four yards in front of him, between trees. She stares at him with gleaming black eyes, her slender ankles hidden in the snow. She's alone.

Sam is motionless, his thumb still hooked into the rifle strap at his shoulder. He has no wish to kill the doe. He just watches her and breathes, his cheeks and nose pink from the cold and his breath visible in the air.

The dog sees the deer and starts for her.

"Shooter, stop," Sam says, his voice low.

Shooter obeys, his nose twitching as he looks at the deer.

She stays where she is for a minute, eyes on Sam, then turns around and disappears.

Shooter begins to run after her but stops again when Sam calls to him.

Sam decides the deer is his sign to go home.

* * *

When they were kids—real little, nine and five, ten and six—Dean would bring Sam with him to the laundry room in motels that had on-site washers and dryers, dutifully doing his and Sam's laundry the way Dad taught him. John had assigned the boys certain chores early on in life, in part because it was a way to give them some sense of normalcy. All kids had chores. Just because the Winchesters didn't have their own residence, didn't mean his boys were going to grow up lazy slobs.

Dean would load the washer, then the dryer, as Sam watched him. Often, they would wait in the laundry room together until the load was done, reading comic books or playing with the toy soldier set they had to share. Dean started doing this thing, where he'd find Sam's favorite blanket in the dryer or one of the towels that they owned and brought with them everywhere and wrap Sam up in it while it was still warm, hugging his brother. Sam would laugh and wriggle around as if he wanted out of Dean's arms, or he would be still and quiet and let Dean hold onto him until the blanket cooled.

Sam doesn't have any memories of his mother holding him, when he was small enough to be swaddled in blankets or carried up to his bed. He can't even remember his father doing that sort of thing, although he's sure John did. But he does have those memories of Dean.

One cold Sunday in Wyoming, Sam pulls a blanket out of the dryer still hot, jogs down the central corridor of the house, swoops into Dean's bedroom and dives onto the bed next to his brother. The blanket billows up and sinks back down to cover them both, and Sam grabs his brother and tucks him under his arm, rolling the blanket around Dean.

"Sam, what the hell?" Dean yelps, his magazine flying out of his hands and onto the floor as he's manhandled into the blanketed cuddle. But he's pliant in Sam's embrace, never trying to escape. He quickly settles down, quiet along with Sam.

Sam closes his eyes, determined to get as many minutes out of this as he can before the blanket goes cold. He's holding Dean close from behind, enveloped in the warmth of the blanket and his brother's body, and he can smell the laundry detergent, the scent fresh and clean. He could stay here all day.

"You're such a weirdo," Dean says, his voice soft and relaxed.

Sam just snuggles his face into the back of Dean's shoulder.

* * *

On a chilly October night, weeks before the winter's first snow, Sam and Dean and Cas build a fire on the lawn behind the houses, taking the wood from the pile of logs stacked against the side of the main house. The flames rise to lick the air almost six feet from the ground, tiny embers splitting off and glowing like fireflies. They sit near each other in three fold-up lawn chairs dragged out of storage, all wrapped up in blankets despite their layers of clothing. The cooler full of beer sits on the ground between Sam and Dean, and the three of them drink as they stare into the fire. They can feel the heat on their faces, comforting in a bone-deep, primitive way. The fire casts an orange light on the back of the Winchester house, gleaming in the windows. Soon enough, Wyoming will grow too cold for them to sit outside like this. Tonight is one of their last fires for the year, until summer rolls around again next May.

"All right, guys," Dean says, after taking a pulling from his beer. "Halloween plans. Hit me."

Sam rolls his eyes.

"Don't even think about raining on my spooky parade, Sam. I'll put a clown doll in your bed."

"I would kick your ass so hard..." Sam says. "Jerk."

"Bitch."

"Well, I volunteered to co-host the children's Halloween party at the church that day, but it's in the afternoon," says Castiel. "I should be free in the evening."

"Is this the year we get you a plastic halo and a pair of feathery wings?" Dean says to him, with a smirk on his face.

"Not unless this is also the year you dress up as a woman."

Sam cracks up laughing.

Dean glares at his brother.

"I think you would make a good Farrah Fawcett," Castiel continues. "From her Charlie's Angels days."

Sam almost tips over his chair laughing.

"Someone needs to take away your TV," Dean says to Cas, still frowning as he drinks.

"Oh, my God," Sam says, his eyes watering. "Can we please make this happen, Cas? Can we find him a good wig and a red bathing suit?"

"Fuck you, Sam."

"I could ask Leah to do his make-up."

Cas is holding back a laugh, his blue eyes twinkling in the firelight.

"You're the one with hair long enough for a ponytail, ass hat," Dean says to Sam.

Sam just sniggers and laughs more.

"I think you would make a very pretty woman, Dean," Castiel says. "As long as you shaved off the beard, of course."

"Cas, that is the creepiest thing I think you've ever said to me."

"He's right, though," Sam says. "You're one of those pretty guys who wouldn't even look like a man in drag. You'd just look like a really tall woman."

Dean shakes his head. "You're not going to distract me from making actual Halloween plans. If you two don't want to dress up, fine, but we're going out. And if you don't give me any kind of input, I'll just decide without you what we're doing."

"Shouldn't somebody stay home for the trick-or-treaters?"

Dean just gives him a bitch face. Their nearest neighbor is fifteen minutes away by car, and town is twenty-five minutes away. Five Halloweens running, they haven't had a single trick-or-treater stop by.

They're quiet for a minute, drinking and watching the fire. Sam glances at his brother, appreciating the way his face looks in the light—peaceful and younger. Even now, he has no idea why Dean likes Halloween so much, although since moving to Wyoming Sam has privately theorized that it's got something to do with the part of Dean that misses hunting.

"Actually, I was thinking maybe we could go out to Rock Springs," Dean says. "Make a whole weekend out of it. There's this bar that's supposed to throw a pretty sweet Halloween party, adults only, costumes encouraged. And drinks are half off, to boot."

"You want to drive two hours to drink and get laid in costume?" Sam says, his eyebrows raised and his tone skeptical.

"An hour and a half, Sam. Which is nothing. And yeah, I do, because it'll be fun."

"For you." Sam drinks the last of his beer.

"Hey, it's not my fault if you decide to mope someplace and turn down perfectly hot women."

"Does this plan meet with Kendall's approval?" Castiel says, staring into the fire. His beer is less than half-full on his knee.

Dean looks at him on his other side. "Are you kidding? Kendall doesn't care what I do. Hell, she's probably got her own plans for that weekend, and if they involve hooking up with some other dude, fine by me."

"She and Dean aren't exactly a couple, Cas," Sam says. "You know that."

"Romance is not necessary for people to want sexual monogamy," Cas says. "It is also not a prerequisite for jealousy."

"Yeah, well," Dean says. "If she wanted any kind of monogamy, I'm pretty sure she would've said something by now."

"So you don't want to bring her along?"

Dean glances at him and shrugs. "No. I mean, I was thinking it'd be the three of us. But if you guys really don't want to go, then I might be able to get her to come with me instead. Or I'll just go alone. Whatever."

Sam sighs, sounding put-upon, and finally relents. "I'll go."

Dean smiles and toasts the air with his beer.

"I suppose I'll keep Sam company," Castiel says. "While you are—otherwise occupied."

"Thanks, Cas," Sam says.

"All right," Dean says, happy. "I got two weeks to get my costume together."

"Captain America."

Dean looks at Sam.

Sam nods. "You'll probably have to shave to pull it off, but it'd be worth it. You'll definitely score."

"If I find you a good Thor costume, will you wear it?" Dean says.

Sam snorts.

"Doesn't Thor have blonde hair?" Castiel says.

"It doesn't matter," says Dean. "Sam could totally be Thor." He turns toward his brother. "Hey, you actually killed two gods with the real Mjolnir. Remember? If that doesn't make you Thor, I don't know what does."

Sam smiles, despite himself.

* * *

The Winchesters sleep more than they ever did when they were hunters. Gone are the days where they force themselves to get by on four or five hours a night. Now, they both sleep at least eight on a daily basis, and on weekends, Dean can sleep nine or ten hours straight without an alarm set to wake him up. Some days, he takes a nap when he gets home from work, even after eight hours a night. Neither of them know how the hell they survived hunting so many years with so little sleep—they needed it more back then, compared to now—and they're more than happy to make up for it.

Their fifth spring in Wyoming, Sam comes home from a Saturday shift at the Guns and Hardware store to a quiet house. Dean said he was going to have lunch at home and not go into town. The Impala's parked out front.

Sam hangs up his jacket on the row of coat hooks by the front door and takes off his shoes, leaving them next to a pair of Dean's against the wall. He goes padding down the main corridor in his socks, calling his brother's name. When he doesn't get an answer, he heads straight for Dean's bedroom and finds the door open.

Dean's napping. The bed is made—he makes it every morning, with the same military precision their father expected when they were kids—and he's got a spare blanket drawn up over his top shoulder. He's lying on his side, facing the rear wall of the house.

Sam almost never works on Saturdays, except when he tends bar at the saloon at night. He covered for one of his co-workers today, and while he did get to sleep in before his ten o'clock start time, working did interrupt the relaxation he's used to on the weekends.

He doesn't have to look at Dean for long before he's sliding under the blanket next to him. Dean, who's a deeper sleeper now that he's retired from hunting, shifts next to Sam but doesn't wake up to full alertness. Sam curls up against Dean's back and closes his eyes, his arms tucked close to his body but his hand still resting on Dean's waist. He just about fits in the queen-sized bed with Dean near the edge of the left side, but neither one of them has much room to move around.

They used to nap together when they were kids. Even after Dean got old enough that he didn't need it anymore, he would go down with Sam to make sure that his younger brother napped. Dean was still young enough then that John hadn't started training him as a hunter, shielding both boys from the reality of his job, and plenty of times, John would drop them off at Pastor Jim's or some other friend's place, leaving them for a week or two at a time. Sam remembers that he liked the beds at Pastor Jim's house a lot more than the ones he and Dean slept in on the road, and that almost compensated for their father's absence.

When Sam wakes up, the room is a little dimmer and he's got his arm wrapped around Dean like he's determined to keep his brother there until Sam's ready to get up. Dean doesn't move or speak, the sound of breathing soft and relaxed. Sam checks his watch: he slept for an hour. They're going to run out of daylight soon, but he's so comfortable that he's not sold on the idea of leaving the bed.

Sam just lies there, eyes opening and closing, only sort of trying not to doze. Dean is warm against him, his t-shirt soft, and he smells like himself—that smell particular to Dean, his skin, his sweat, Old Spice aftershave and leather and a hint of motor oil, the mountains and the pine woods. Sam holds him these days, sleeps tucked up around him, in part because of all the years they needed to do this but never did. All those nights of Dean passing out drunk or barely sleeping at all, nights where Sam slept through dreams that stole his rest and always escaped his memory.

Dean stirs, pushes Sam away as he rolls over to face him, his eyes cracking open to peer at his brother. He flings his arm around Sam and burrows his face into Sam's chest, pulling them close again. Sam just smiles and stretches out the arm underneath him, resting his other hand on Dean's shoulder.

When they're both awake again, their nap over, it's almost dark outside. The days are still short, in the tail end of winter.

* * *

Their second February in Wyoming was an awful month. The weather sucked pretty much the whole four weeks, Sam's depression was the worst it'd been since they retired—after three months of a steady downward spiral, and toward the end of the month, the Winchesters had their epic blow-out fight that resulted in Dean getting a motel room for a week. They didn't hit each other, which technically made the fight not as bad as it could've been, but they screamed a lot more than they historically had in arguments with each other, probably to make up for the lack of punches.

When Castiel finds him, Sam is sitting on the far side of his bed with his back to the door, sniffling as his breath hitches every couple moments. The door creaks on its hinges as Cas pushes it open just enough for him to slip into the room. Sam knows it's him, even though Cas didn't say a word on his way down the corridor from the front door of the house. He doesn't turn around.

"Sam?" Castiel says.

Sam doesn't answer, his hands in his lap. He hasn't tried to dry his face at all, in the last twenty minutes that he's been crying.

Cas takes a few more steps toward the bed but keeps his distance. "Sam, what's wrong?"

Sam sniffs and squeezes his eyes shut for second. He can feel snot drooping out of one nostril, and it feels like his whole face is wet.

Castiel waits a minute, then slowly crosses the room and sits down next to Sam.

Sam doesn't try to hide from him. He's a mess, and wiping at his face with his sleeve isn't going to change that in the next moment.

"Sam," Cas says, his voice soft and almost careful. "Tell me why you're upset."

Sam glances at his friend, rubbing his nose into his shirt sleeve on his shoulder.

Castiel's blue eyes watch him with concern.

"Dean," Sam says. "Dean's gone."

"Where did he go?"

"I don't know. We had a fight. A bad one."

Cas grimaces.

"I don't know when he's coming back," Sam says. "If he's coming back."

"Sam," Cas says, his tone a little admonishing. "Of course he will."

Sam sniffs again, tears still leaking from his eyes but less heavily. "You weren't here. You didn't see how bad it was."

Cas pauses, then says, "I was there after Lucifer got free, and after you discovered what Dean did with Gadreel. I think I've seen enough to know that whatever you two were fighting about today, it won't drive your brother away forever."

Sam's sort of half-hiccups as he tries to catch his breath, his heart physically hurting in his chest. He's surprised Cas didn't hear him and Dean yelling at each other, they were so loud. Or maybe the angel did and is just being polite by not mentioning it. He and Dean haven't fought like this in years, but Sam is still amazed and little embarrassed that he's this broken up about it. Cas is right; he and Dean have been worse off, a lot worse off. Has Sam really gone this soft in a mere two years of retirement?

Cas rests his hand on the back of Sam's shoulder and starts rubbing it up and down. He's a lot better at comforting people now than he was when the Winchesters hunted.

"He wants to quit taking his meds," Sam explains. "He doesn't think they're really helping, that they can make him better long-term. That's what he says, I don't know if it's what he really thinks. I don't understand how he could think that. They _are_ helping. It's obvious that he's better on them than he was before."

Cas doesn't stop stroking Sam's back, listening and looking at him attentively.

"How can he not see it?" Sam says.

"I'm sure he does," says Cas. "Maybe he's afraid that he'll have to stay on them forever. That he can't be okay without them. Maybe he wants to prove to himself that he can be."

"I told him that eventually, he probably will stop taking them, but not now. Not this soon."

Sam presses the heel of his hand to his forehead and closes his eyes for a moment. His head's starting to pound, probably from the crying and dehydration.

"Are you all right?" says Cas.

"Fine," Sam says. "Physically."

Cas has started widening his stroke on Sam's back, moving his hand in circles and squiggles that cover its full breadth.

"I don't know why I'm crying," Sam says. "As soon as he left, I just started and couldn't stop."

"You're allowed, Sam," says Cas. "It's okay."

Sam drops his hand back down to his lap and opens his eyes again. The tears have almost stopped, but he's still damp with the ones he already cried and with sweat too. "He said he's tired of me, Cas. He said he's tired of me trying to control him, treating him like a child that needs to be taken care of. He said his mental health is none of my business, and I can fuck off."

"He was angry. He didn't mean it."

"I know he probably didn't," says Sam. "But it still hurt."

Cas doesn't answer, now stroking the length of Sam's back up and down in the middle.

"I just want him to be okay. I don't want to control him, but if he won't listen to his psychiatrist, if he won't actually do what he has to do to get better, then I have to say something. He can't just deny that he's got problems and be a miserable, functional alcoholic the rest of his life. We know that doesn't work, we've seen him go that route for years."

"Sam," Castiel says. "Whatever he said when you were fighting, you can't take too seriously. Wait until he's calm again and then see what he says. I don't think he wants to go back to the way things were before either."

Sam takes a deep breath. He does feel better with Cas here. "I worry about us too, you know," he says, glancing at the angel. "I worry that Dean and I are never going to be okay, that we're too broken and traumatized to recover. I worry that we're always going to be where we are now, that the meds and the counseling and everything else is just a piss-poor attempt to fix us when we can't be fixed. But I won't tell him that because one of us has to believe that there's hope. And most of the time, I do. But it's hard, Cas. It's really hard."

"I know."

Sam feels a stab of pain in his heart and his gut. He leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees and buries his face in both hands. He thinks he might start crying all over again, even though it feels like there can't possibly be any more tears left in him. He's totally spent, exhausted emotionally and physically, and he just wants to pass out, stay under until Dean comes back.

The thought of his brother moving out and going away for real is enough to turn Sam's stomach. He can't imagine losing Dean now. Again. Maybe Cas is right, maybe he's blowing this fight out of proportion, but God, Dean was so angry. If Sam didn't know better, he could've sworn it was hate in Dean's eyes, when his older brother looked at him just before walking out.

"Sam?" Castiel says. "I could say a prayer with you—if you want me to."

Sam still doesn't know what exactly Castiel's relationship is with God or if God actually listens to any of them. Sam himself quit praying for a while, way back when, but picked it up again and continues to do it here in Wyoming. He's been praying a lot this winter, which has been rough—rougher than last winter.

He swallows and nods, the warm weight of Castiel's hand on his back a welcome comfort. "Yeah, Cas. I'd like that."

"Okay."

Castiel moves to sit behind Sam on the bed, folding his legs in front of him. He rests both hands on Sam's shoulders and bows his head. He's quiet for a moment, before he begins praying out loud.

"Father, I ask you to help Sam. Be a comfort unto him as he waits for his brother's return and give him the wisdom to know how to handle this situation in everyone's best interest. I ask you to soften Dean's heart toward his brother and help him to make the right choices for himself, as he seeks healing. Please use me as an instrument of your peace in the lives of Sam and Dean. Bless them and their relationship. Thank you. Amen."

Sam opens his eyes. He does feel better than he did a few minutes ago.

Castiel's hands slip off Sam's back.

"Thanks, Cas," Sam says.

"You're welcome," Castiel says. "Now what?"

Sam's quiet for a beat. "I'm going to go wash up. Then, I think I'm going to take a nap."

"Sounds like a plan. I can make us something for dinner, unless you're not hungry."

"Maybe later," Sam says.

He gets up and rounds the foot of the bed, heading for the door. He stops and peers back at Castiel, who's still sitting in the middle of the bed.

"Hey, Cas?"

"Yes, Sam."

"Would you stay with me while I take that nap?"

Castiel's face softens as he looks at Sam. "Of course," he says.

* * *

Sam's sitting on the rug in the front room, his back against the sofa, an assortment of paper and books spread out around him. A spiral notebook and pen are on the floor directly in front of him, and he's got his iPad in his lap. He's in the midst of working on a paper for his anatomy and physiology class.

Once he figured out he could finish earning his Bachelor's degree through the distance learning outreach program offered by University of Wyoming, without having to relocate to Laramie, Sam started saving money for it. He was only a semester and change short when he dropped out of Stanford, and it didn't take him long to earn those credits from UW. The smile on his face when he got his diploma in the mail—well, Dean should've known his brother wasn't going to stop there.

Sam is enrolled in an online program to earn a degree in holistic health practice. It isn't quite the equivalent of a doctorate in naturopathy, but it's supposed to be enough for him to work as a supplemental caregiver in a place like the Big Piney-Marbleton clinic or open a private practice for clients seeking alternative therapies. After he graduates, he plans on enrolling part-time in the massage therapy school down in Rock Springs. It should take him two or three years to finish and earn his license, assuming he passes the exam.

Dean's watching TV, something that Sam isn't paying any attention to, sitting on the sofa right behind his brother with his legs pretzeled on the cushion. He's keeping quiet out of respect for Sam's request that Dean let him work.

Dean starts playing with Sam's hair, which is loose and brushes his wide shoulders. He combs his fingers through it for a few minutes, and Sam lets him, not acknowledging it. Dean starts braiding a lock of it, peering back and forth between the TV and the hair. He finishes the braid and drops it, the last few weaves in it coming undone as soon as he does. He parts Sam's hair down the middle and pushes each section over the front of Sam's shoulders, giving him access to the back of Sam's neck which he starts rubbing with one hand.

It feels good, but it's distracting. Sam only tries to focus on his paper for about thirty seconds, before he raises his head and half-closes his eyes, a partial smile playing on his mouth.

"Dean," he says.

"Hmm?" says Dean, eyes on the television.

"Could you wait until after I'm done?"

"For what? This?"

Dean presses his fingertips into Sam's neck with more force as he squeezes it.

"Yeah, that," says Sam.

"I think it's time for a break," Dean says. "A run down to the main road, spar session, maybe a joyride. I'll even let you drive."

"Dean."

But Dean ignores Sam. He rubs his thumb into a knob of Sam's spine, right below the base of his neck, and damn, it feels good. Sam closes his eyes, just for a moment.

"All I'm saying is, it'd be nice to get out of the house. Even just for an hour. Half an hour. It's not even that cold out. What do you say?"

Dean starts using both hands, working Sam's neck with the heels of his palms. Sam drops his head between his shoulders, hands on his knees and iPad forgotten in his lap.

"I'm going to take your silence as a yes," says Dean.

"Mmm, this paper's due on Tuesday," Sam says, with no real fight in him.

"And today is Sunday. You got a whole day tomorrow. Hell, you got tonight too. You take a break now, and I'll leave you alone the rest of the night. Promise."

Sam goes boneless and bites back a moan when Dean starts massaging his scalp. He tips his head back to give his brother better access to the top, and Dean smiles, working the scalp from ear to ear with all of his fingers. The younger Winchester is going to have a serious case of bedhead when Dean's done with him. When Dean starts scratching at Sam's scalp with his fingernails, Sam feels a chill run through him and hums in pleasure. He sits there against the sofa seat, limp as his brother works him over, and loses all motivation and interest in homework. He can hear the TV but isn't paying attention to it.

Eventually, Dean's scratching turns into rubbing which tones down to petting and smoothing Sam's hair. Sam doesn't move or make a sound.

"Sam," Dean says, his voice softer than it was before. "You decide what we're doing?"

Sam doesn't feel like doing much of anything—but he knows he isn't going to get out of this one.

"What's it like outside?" he says, eyes still closed and head still tipped back into Dean's legs.

"Cloudy," says Dean. "My phone says it's forty-seven degrees, not much wind."

Sam thinks. "I could go for a walk."

"That wasn't even an option."

"Tough."

Dean sighs. "Fine. We're taking Shooter."

"Obviously."

They slip into their flannels and jackets hung on the coat rack by the front door and step into their boots lined up against the wall. Shooter bolts outside as soon as Dean opens the door, paws clattering on the porch steps. Sam follows them and leaves the door unlocked behind him, watching his brother's back as the beagle runs ahead of Dean toward the long dirt drive that leads to State Route 350, Middle Piney Road—the main paved road leading west out of town.

Dean looks over his shoulder a couple times, as if to make sure Sam is coming along, and Sam just takes his time behind him. The hard, bare ground is beginning to show signs of new grass growing, having thawed out just over the last two weeks. The Engelmann spruce trees surrounding their property are dark green again, their white powder coating long melted. Soon, it'll be warm enough to take walks without a jacket. Sam feels his heart lift already as he catches up to Dean on the dirt path, smiling at the corners of his mouth.

They walk shoulder to shoulder on the left side of the path, their footsteps cutting through the quiet of their acreage as their boots scrape against the gravel. Sam keeps his hands in his pockets, and they brush against each other, arm against arm. Shooter stays several yards ahead of them, no longer running, his nose to the ground on something's trail. They don't talk, comfortable in silence together as two people can only be after decades of long rides in cars.

When they reach the paved road and see the edges of the forested land a mile east, the flat open plains beyond it that stretches all the way to town and beyond it, Dean whistles to Shooter, and the dog trots back to him and Sam. Few people drive past the Winchester property on this road, which leads to campgrounds and wilderness to the west, but without a leash for him, the brothers like to keep Shooter close when they walk here.

"Kinda feels like we're the only ones in the world out here, doesn't it?" Sam says, his voice soft under the last of the trees.

Dean looks at him, then down at his feet. A smile plays on his lips. "Yeah, it kinda does," he says.

It always kinda has, with them.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: It's been a long wait but hopefully the extra long chapter makes up for it!

* * *

Part 3

* * *

Sam's been trying damn hard for a whole week to hide it, but as soon as he wakes up on Friday morning, he knows he can't do it anymore. He's depressed, and it's bad enough that he lays there for ten whole minutes after his alarm goes off because he feels like he never wants to get up again. But if he skips work, he'll just spend the whole day at home alone, and that might actually make it worse.

Dean's gone by the time Sam's finished washing up and getting dressed; he has to be at the auto shop Monday through Friday at nine sharp. Sam's shift at the guns & hardware store doesn't start until ten today. It's a small blessing, escaping Dean's observation. If his big brother could see him right now, he'd know in an instant that something's wrong.

Sam fills his thermos with coffee, takes his anti-depressants, half-heartedly pokes around the pantry and the refrigerator to pack his lunch even though he can't imagine eating in a couple hours, finds a sandwich wrapped in foil with his name written on it because sometimes Dean makes Sam lunch when he's packing his own, and for a split second, he feels like he's going to cry because it's so nice of Dean but Sam's not even hungry. Then, he forces himself to get a grip, puts the sandwich in his lunch box, and leaves.

He gets through his shift somehow, forcing a tight smile at every customer who comes in, trying his best not to sound sad or tired. He must do a good job at hiding his mood because his boss doesn't mention it or treat him any differently than usual. He forces himself to eat most of the sandwich, even though his appetite's all but gone, and he drains his thermos.

He doesn't linger in town after his shift's over at four o'clock, just gets into his truck and drives straight home again. He can feel himself falling apart on the ride, all semblances of strength and neutrality crumbling and leaving nothing but sheer despair behind. The bottom of his stomach drops out, his heart sinks, and his eyes water as he drives up the skinny paved path cutting through the woods from the highway, leading to the Winchester property. He has no idea what's going on with him, but he's pretty sure he can't keep it together anymore.

He just sits in the parked truck for a few minutes, after he kills the engine. Sits there and allows the depression to wash over him like the tide. He already spent the past few days searching for an external reason, a cause for this sudden episode, but he's come up empty-handed. He knows well enough by now that depression doesn't need a logical catalyst, but Sam's always hated the idea of his feelings being arbitrary and irrational. Usually, he blames the depression on the mountain of trauma in his past, and he can easily get away with it. He's experienced enough trauma to wreck a hundred men, a thousand, and anyone else would've been beyond repair years ago. The fact that he's as sane and emotionally stable as he is, is a miracle. He knows that. But in a way, this episode of depression feels like some kind of personal failure. He's been doing really well for a while now, hasn't been depressed in about eighteen months, and this feels like he's a recovering drug addict who just fell off the wagon.

Sam gets out of the truck and goes into the house. It's quiet but warm and welcoming, full of Sam and Dean's personalities and care. They've even got photos on the wall now, framed and everything: Mom and Dad and Bobby and Cas and baby pictures, photos of the brothers throughout the years. Sam bought himself a fancy camera secondhand not long after they moved to Wyoming, determined to capture their new life on film. He develops his favorite photos into prints, old school, and puts them in frames around the house or in photo albums he keeps on a shelf in his bedroom bookcase.

He stops and looks at the pictures hanging on the wall in the corridor just past the kitchen, the oldest ones that he and Dean have been carrying around all their lives—the few photos they have of their family when Mary was still alive and when the boys were still young enough that John hadn't introduced them to hunting. The only one missing is the photo of Mary with her arms around four year-old Dean; Sam let his brother keep that one for his room.

He wishes he had pictures of Jess—of Ellen and Jo, Adam, Rufus, Charlie, Kevin. Whatever he and Dean snapped with their cell phones is long gone with the phones themselves, and they never took many photos that way in the first place. Sam realized a while ago that the faces of his dead friends and loved ones are fading from his memory, that he can no longer be sure how accurate they are. He and Dean have enough pictures of their parents and Bobby that Sam can always refer to them, but the others are no longer so clear. That's one reason he insists on taking so many pictures of Leah and Castiel and Kendall with Dean and the townspeople he and his brother are friendly with.

Sam slinks away to his bedroom, where he takes off his shoes and button-down shirt and collapses onto his bed. Maybe he should call his psychiatrist, but he doesn't particularly want to. The man can't do anything for him anyway. If Sam had a therapist, he would probably go see her, but he doesn't. He's got a bottle of pills and the guy who prescribes them. And he's taking the pills. But here he is.

He lies there and thinks about how much he doesn't want to tell Dean. He wants to be strong for his brother. He wants to be the one to do the caretaking, not the one Dean needs to save. Sam's been saved enough. He's caused his brother enough grief and worry for one lifetime; he doesn't want to do it anymore, not here in this place, in this second chance.

And he feels like he should be able to handle this, considering he survived the hallucinatory mental illness he went through after his Hell wall broke down. Sure, he would've eventually died from the sleep deprivation, had Castiel not stepped in, but if it wasn't for that, he probably could've lived with the rest of it. He could've functioned. And he did function for months, with an unstable sense of reality. That was way worse than mere depression. He didn't even have medication or a therapist to help him deal with those hallucinations and the trauma of his memories from Hell, but he kept hunting full-time, dealt with Bobby's death and Leviathans infesting the world and going deep undercover to avoid the Feds.

Now, all he's gotta contend with is sadness in his normal, civilian life, and he doesn't even want to go to work or get out of bed? It's pathetic. He knows he isn't a twenty-something anymore, and maybe he's gone soft in his hunter retirement. But damn, he thought he was made of stronger stuff than this. He's Sam fucking Winchester, for God's sake. He's John Winchester's son. He can't let depression get the best of him.

Eventually, he forces himself to get up but only so he can change out of his jeans and into sweatpants. He goes to the kitchen and drinks some water, thinks about making himself some tea but decides to wait, considers having a beer instead or a glass of whiskey but then thinks no, he shouldn't self-medicate like that. For a moment, he likes the idea of going out to the barn and hitting the punching bag to take the edge off, but the appeal quickly vanishes because he's just too depressed, not angry.

He spends several minutes staring at his cell phone on the kitchen table, wanting to call Leah. But he hates complaining and he especially hates complaining about how depressed he is. He knows that she can't help him, not really, and he'll just end up making her feel bad for him. He could go see her because maybe she'd be able to comfort him better in person, but there's no way in hell he's going to make the effort right now.

When he officially gives up on turning to Leah, Sam returns to his bedroom, leaving his phone on the kitchen table. He lies on the bed, switching back and forth between open eyes and closed, waiting for Dean to get home or for spontaneous relief to hit him.

He hears the front door open and close, after a while. Dean's footsteps coming down the corridor.

"Sam?" Dean says, before he reaches the bedrooms.

Sam doesn't answer.

The door creaks when Dean pushes it open and pokes his head in. "Sam? What are you doing?"

"Nothing," says Sam, his voice flat.

Dean takes a few steps into the room. "What's a matter? Did work suck or something?"

"No."

"Okay... Well, unless you're sick, something must be up. It's quarter to six on a Friday, and you're in sweatpants."

"Maybe I just felt like being comfortable," says Sam.

"Try again," Dean says, then crosses the room and sits on the bed. "Come on. Tell me."

Sam's lying on his stomach, facing the wall opposite the door. Dean's next to him, behind him, and they can't see each other's face. Sam's quiet for a beat, and Dean waits for him to answer.

"I kinda had a feeling something was bothering you," says Dean. "I just figured you'd tell me when you were ready. But now you're here and I can't really wait anymore, Sam."

"Nothing's going on," Sam replies. "Really. I'm just—I'm depressed."

Dean doesn't respond at first.

And the longer the silence stretches on, the worse Sam feels, a blend of guilt and embarrassment spreading through him. His eyes well with tears, and he wants to tell Dean to go away but doesn't trust the steadiness of his voice. He knows Dean doesn't judge him for having depression, but he's afraid that Dean's disappointed. Not in Sam but in the situation, disappointed that Sam isn't past this, that maybe the pills aren't working as well as they thought. And hell, Sam would be disappointed too if he wasn't already so low. Their whole lives, it's been a non-stop shit show, and Sam knows that Dean's spent much of it feeling like they can never catch a break. Retirement was supposed to be that break, and right now, Sam feels like he's spoiling it. Intellectually, he knows that's ridiculous, but he doesn't care.

"How long?" Dean says.

Sam swallows, tries to get control of his emotions. "A week," he says.

"You didn't tell me."

It isn't angry. It's quiet.

"I kept hoping it would pass," Sam replies, a tear escaping the outside corner of his eye.

"It will," says Dean. "It always does."

Sam doesn't answer, still lying there on his stomach with his arms around the pillow beneath his head.

Dean lays a hand on Sam's back, and the warmth and weight of it feels so comforting, Sam almost starts to cry.

"What do you want me to do?" Dean says, his voice still soft.

At first, Sam thinks he has no idea what he wants. Then, he realizes, asking as soon as the desire pops into his mind. "Would you hold me? Please?"

"Yeah, Sammy. I can do that."

Dean lies down on the bed next to Sam, as Sam moves over to make more room and rolls onto his side facing away from Dean. Dean wraps his arm around Sam's waist and tucks himself behind his brother, right up against him. Sam's body is warm, radiating heat that seeps into Dean the way it always does when they cuddle. Dean always has to adjust to the size of his little brother's 6'4 frame, to Sam's weight and the breadth of his shoulders, the physical strength that matches Dean's, the bigness of his hands and the hardness of his muscles. Sam's one of only two men that Dean's cuddled in his life, the other being Castiel. Dean is used to women, to touching and handling and being close to their bodies, and it took him a while to learn how to be close to the body of another man not much different than himself.

There is something supremely intimate about cuddling with Sam, considering that Sam is physically capable of killing Dean with his bare hands and they have hurt each other physically many times in the past. Dean knows Sam's body almost as well as he knows his own, better than he knows anyone else's, and he's aware that Sam knows his just as well. Most people, most civilians, wouldn't understand—how the body of someone you've never fucked can be more familiar to you than the bodies of the people you have. But when you've spent your whole life physically next to someone, tending to their illness, holding their corpse in your arms, stitching up their wounds, covered in their blood and sweat, watching them kill, helping them kill, living in combat together, keeping them in one piece with your hands—sex just doesn't compare. Especially when most of the sex you've had in adulthood happened as one night stands with total strangers.

Dean starts to hum, something he started doing a few years back when cuddling Sam became a regular thing. It's often easier not to talk when they cuddle, but sometimes, Dean wants to break the silence. He tends to hum when Sam's depressed like this, choosing different rock songs that they both know by heart after listening to them a million times in the car. Once in a while, he'll hum one of the songs their mom loved, but that's always something he has to be careful with, because it can make Sam even more emotional.

This time, it's "Going to California." One of the Led Zeppelin songs Sam always liked, even when he was a kid. For years after Jessica's death, Dean deliberately skipped it on the tape in the Impala, until one day Sam caught him doing it and told him it was okay. Ever since, when they listen to it, Sam smiles softly. Dean's never asked him what he thinks about when he hears the song. Maybe Jess. Maybe some golden memory from their childhood, when things were good with Dad. Or maybe Sam's memories of being in California with Dean now cover everything else he associates with the state.

Sam rolls over to face Dean, hooking his arm around his brother and burying his face in Dean's chest, into the softness of Dean's henley and the smell of Dean's cologne. Dean cups Sam's head in his hand and scrapes his fingertips against Sam's scalp, back and forth, almost rubbing. Sam starts to cry again, quiet and controlled, the way he always has—in motel rooms where he was never alone, in the backseat of the Impala, in gas station bathrooms and hospital parking lots, graveside and roadside. He's always been good at it, still is, and a part of him wishes he could be loud. Wishes he could sob open-mouthed and messy. Even when Dean was in Hell—which was so long ago that it feels like something from a past life—Sam cried silent, imploding. Some nights he didn't cry at all, drinking himself into a stupor that never dulled his pain.

Sam remembers a time when it was Dean stricken with depression, crying for no reason in Sam's arms. That was a few years ago, and Dean's left the depressive phase of his PTSD recovery behind him, as far as they can tell. Sam is immeasurably grateful that his brother isn't depressed anymore, but right now, he feels all the more disappointed and ashamed that he's back in the pit instead of being the strong and collected person he was when Dean needed his comfort.

"Dean," Sam says, almost whispering as tears snake down his nose. "I'm sorry."

"Shhhhh," says Dean. "You've got nothing to be sorry for."

"I don't want to screw up your life again. I don't want to be your burden. I just want you to be happy. I want us to be happy."

"I know, Sammy. We will be. We are. This is going to pass. I promise."

Sam squeezes his eyes shut and stays quiet as the tears leak from his eyes, only taking a few sharp, papery breaths every few minutes. He grips Dean's back with curled fingers like he's going to die if he lets go.

Dean strokes Sam's cheek with his thumb, still holding Sam's head to his chest.

"I don't want to live without you," Sam whispers. "I never want to go through that again."

"I'm not going anywhere," says Dean. "Neither are you."

Sam presses his face into Dean's chest, wetting his brother's shirt. "I love you."

"I love you too. More than anything."

Dean's voice comes out rough when he says it, and it reminds Sam that for the longest time, they never told each other. Not just because they were Winchesters, men who don't say that kind of thing, but because their love was always so intense that the idea of admitting it out loud, in words, simultaneously seemed overwhelming and inadequate.

Now, Sam wishes they hadn't wasted so many years not saying it. Years where they each doubted each other's love one too many times, where neither one of them felt loved by the other or by anyone at all, really.

"I need you," Sam whispers.

Dean doesn't answer. But a minute later, he hushes again, even though Sam isn't making any noise. He moves his hand from Sam's head to Sam's back and starts stroking. "You're okay. This'll pass. It'll pass."

Sam clings to him as the crying slows down and stops, his breathing evening out eventually. When he's calm again, his body relaxes around Dean, arm, hand, and leg loosening without moving off.

They lie there on the bed, warm and drying out, sleepy with the intensity of their emotional exchange. Sam's almost unconscious when Dean palms the back of his head again and tilts it so that he can get a good look at his brother. Sam hardly opens his eyes, as Dean kisses the top of his forehead.

* * *

June. Summer heat's already hit the rest of the country, but here in Sublette County, Wyoming, it's still cool enough to be spring. Tonight, Sam and Dean are wearing jackets as they sit on their front porch with the old green ice box on the floor between their rocking chairs. They drink beer and watch the dog sniffing around in the grass not far from the house. Beyond the scope of the porch lights, their property and the woods surrounding it are engulfed in solid darkness, the tree tops silhouetted against a sky full of stars. It's so quiet that they could hear a twig snapping under someone's boot yards away, the only sound the dog's footsteps rustling the ground and the rocking chair runners against the porch floorboards.

"Man, I don't know how you did it," says Dean, his voice clear and strong.

Sam glances at him. "What?"

"Put up with me all those years we were hunting."

Sam gives him a confused, inquisitive look.

"I was a dick," Dean says. "Especially to you. I mean, I did things and said shit that—" He shakes his head. "Looking back on it now, I can't even believe it. It's like I was a different person."

"You were," says Sam. "So was I."

"Yeah, but you treated me better than I treated you. For real. It's true."

Sam looks ahead again. "Dean."

"I know it's all water under the bridge," Dean says. "We're past it. But every time I remember something from those days, some fucked up thing I said to you or did to you, I almost have to pinch myself to make sure you're really here."

"Of course I'm here," says Sam. "You're my brother."

"That never gave me the right to hurt you. Or to be a dick."

"No, it didn't—but it gave me a reason to forgive you and hope that one day, things would get better. And it's not like I have a spotless track record, in the brother department or the human one."

Dean pauses. "I should've been better." He sips on his beer. "At the very least, I should've apologized to you a lot sooner."

"Winchesters aren't real good with apologies," Sam says, looking down into his lap for a beat with a small smile.

"We're better now," says Dean. "That's something."

"Yeah."

They fall silent again, finishing their beers as they look out into the night together. They see the stars above the tree tops and remember so many stops along the backroads of America, where they watched these same stars and drank beer out of this same cooler, the hood of the Impala not much different than the porch of this house.

"I am sorry," Dean says. "For all of it."

Sam looks at his brother. "You don't have to keep apologizing, Dean. Once was enough. Blanket apology, blanket forgiveness. Don't waste any more time feeling guilty about shit you can't change. I don't hold any of it against you. Really."

"I know. I can say the same to you."

Sam nods.

Dean looks away, pauses, then says, "I'm kinder now, right? To you."

Sam huffs. "Indescribably."

"Got the whole respect thing down."

"Yeah. I mean, as much as anyone can with room for human error."

"Hmm." Dean pulls another beer out of the cooler and pops the cap off with the bottle opener he brought outside from the kitchen.

Sam follows his lead and takes a new bottle from of the cooler too, holding his hand out for the opener.

The dog comes up the porch steps and lies down between the two men, in front of the cooler.

"You know," Dean says, after minutes of silence. "Terrible winters aside, I'm glad we picked this place."

Sam shakes his head as he looks up at the sky. "Who would've thought we'd ever get to have any of this, man? Dad would flip out if he could see us. Bobby, too."

"Maybe they can."

Sam smiles. "Maybe," he says.

* * *

They're flying down a strip of the South Pass Highway in the Impala, Dean behind the wheel. Bright sunshine floods through the glass, and the sky is a clear, searing blue ahead of them and all around them as they cut through the high plains. They're the only vehicle on the road, and knowing that highway patrol never scopes out the 82, Dean's speeding like he and Sam are already dead, riding through their shared heaven. Sam doesn't even want to know how fast they're going. He just smiles open-mouthed, laughing with adrenaline and joy and the sense of freedom he always gets on this kind of drive. Dean's singing along to the Rolling Stones' "Honky Tonk Women," bobbing his head and tapping one hand on the top of the steering wheel. He's always loved this song, always sings under his breath when it plays on the jukebox in the saloon where Sam tends bar.

Then, the Eagles come on with "Take It Easy," and Dean rolls right into the words. Reaches across the seat and taps Sam on the arm. And Sam starts singing too.

They're going home—to their second home—and if Sam could feel exactly what he's feeling right now all the time, well. He wouldn't complain.

* * *

The weekend after 4th of July, on a Saturday afternoon, Sam and Leah are the only two people at Middle Piney Lake. They show up just before noon in Sam's truck and eat the lunch that Leah packed for them, sitting in the truck bed on the blankets that Sam put down. It's a beautiful, warm day with clear skies and the sun shines high above them, the water gleaming underneath it. The lake is hidden in the Wyoming Mountain Range, in the midst of Bridger-Teton National Forest, twenty-five miles west of Big Piney and Marbleton. The landscape surrounding the lake is bright green for the short summer season, decorated with the reds, yellows, and purples of the wildflowers in bloom. The mountain peaks rise up beyond the trees, no longer snow-capped, and the air smells clean, breathes light and cool.

When they're finished eating, Sam and Leah sit side by side with their legs dangling out of the truck bed and just look at the lake.

"I can't believe I live here," Sam says, eyes searching the landscape.

Leah smiles. "You and Dean have seen every state in the continental U.S. dozens of times over," she says. "Is there any place as gorgeous as Wyoming?"

"I don't think so." Sam pauses. "It definitely beats Kansas."

"Nothing like this near your old place?"

"Not by a long shot."

Leah doesn't know about the Men of Letters bunker—Sam and Dean agreed that they would keep it a secret—but she knows that the Winchesters lived in Lebanon, KS when they weren't on the road, before moving to Big Piney. She knows that every once in a while, Sam goes back to Kansas, though she doesn't know why. She probably assumes that it's got something to do with Sam and Dean's mother buried in Lawrence, and Sam allows her to believe it. She's not entirely wrong; Sam has visited Mary's grave on a handful of bunker visits. Last year, he had a grave marker put up in the same cemetery for his father, even though there was nothing to bury in the plot except some of John's old things that the brothers took out of his truck after he died. At first, Dean had said that it was stupid and a waste of money, but he did help Sam choose the objects they buried for John. Sam knows for a fact that Dean's been to the cemetery a few times since they put their father's grave there, though they never talk about it.

"You ever come out here with Dean and Cas?" Leah says.

"Dean, once," Sam replies. "I don't think I've been here with Cas."

"Ethan and I spent the day here a few times. Usually, we managed to show up when no one else was around; it's a good spot to be alone, even in the summertime."

Sam glances at Leah and doesn't respond. She seldom mentions her dead husband and has clearly moved on from her grief, but even after six years of friendship, Sam still treats him like a sensitive subject. He knows that's probably more about his own experience with loss and grief than Leah's, but he would still rather be safe than sorry, when it comes to her feelings.

Sam hops down from the truck bed and pulls of his t-shirt, leaving it on the blanket next to Leah. He looks over his shoulder at her and grins. "You ready?" he says.

Leah gives him a skeptical look. "I never said I was going swimming."

"Why would you spend a day at the lake and not go swimming?"

"Because it's cold in there and I can have a perfectly nice time enjoying the beauty of this place while dry."

Sam raises his eyebrows. "Miss Born and Raised in Wyoming can't handle a little cold water?"

"Being a native doesn't make me any more likely to prefer a heated pool over a cold lake," says Leah.

Sam shakes his head. "I'll test it for you. If I can handle it, you can handle it."

"Uh huh," says Leah, sipping on her root beer.

Sam walks into the lake until he's waist-deep, trying not to hiss or shiver, then stops to look around at the scenery before disappearing completely into the water. When he comes back up again, he turns to look at Leah, who's watching him from where she's standing against the end of the truck.

"Come on," he calls out. "It's not that bad."

"How do I know you're not lying?" she says.

Sam, who feels invigorated by the cool water, grins at her. "When have I ever been mean to you?"

She gives him a skeptical look, her arms crossed against her chest, then walks around to the passenger door of the truck. She pulls off her t-shirt and takes off her shorts, folding the clothes and leaving them on the seat inside the truck. She's wearing her bikini instead of a bra and underwear, the bathing suit bright and colorful with floral pattern. Sam tries to be discreet about checking her out, and she smiles at him with a little bit of self-consciousness, as if he's never seen her naked before.

She shrieks as she starts to move into the water, and Sam laughs.

"Sam Winchester, you liar!" she says. "It's cold!"

"It's not that cold," says Sam.

"Well, I won't die from hypothermia, but that doesn't mean it's warm."

"You've lived in Wyoming your whole life. Don't tell me you've never gone lake swimming in the middle of summer before."

She makes a face at him, slowly getting closer.

Sam plants both hands on Leah's shoulders and pushes her underwater, laughing as she resurfaces with a gasping breath and a high-pitched "Shit!"

She strikes the water in his direction, splashing it at him, her hair dripping water down her face and into her eyes. "Jerk!" she says.

Sam just laughs and moves to hug, spreading his arms, but Leah moves away from.

"No, no way are you weaseling your way into another dunk, Winchester," she says, batting the water again lightly.

"Fine, reject my apology hug," he replies, treading water with his arms. "I was going to try warming you up with body heat."

"Yeah, right."

Sam feels his own hair sending rivulets of water down his bare upper back above the surface of the lake.

He turns away from Leah and disappears underwater again, swimming out further into the lake this time, to where it's deep enough that he'd have to dive for the bottom. He resurfaces, whipping his head like a dog and sucking in a deep breath.

When he looks for Leah behind him, he sees her walking back out of the lake until she's on shore again. She runs for the truck, cursing and shivering, snatching her rolled up towel out of the bed and cloaking herself in it. She rubs her body dry before wringing the water out of her hair.

Sam swims back to shore, shivering as he walks to the truck, and Leah holds out his towel, still folded in her own. Sam dries himself and squeezes out his hair, while she takes their big beach towels to a spot on the shore closer to the water and lays them down. She sits on hers and puts her wet towel aside in a pile, pulls her blonde hair over the front of one shoulder, and looks out at the lake. Sam looks at her, at her bare back and the bikini straps. He can't even see her face, but right here in this moment, she's intensely beautiful.

She peeks over shoulder at him eventually. "You going to join me?" she says.

"Yeah," Sam says, after a beat. "Sorry."

He goes over to her and sits on his beach towel, next to her. They look at the lake in silence for a while. When Leah lies down, flat on her back, Sam quickly follows.

Lying there on the beach towel next to Leah, Sam feels the sun warm on his bare skin, smells the clean forest air, listens to the silence only broken by distant birds and the wind in the trees. He has nowhere else to be and nothing extraordinary to worry about. He's happy. He's at peace. At the end of the day, he gets to go home to his brother, to a hot meal and his own bed. He takes a breath and exhales with his eyes closed, his body completely relaxed.

Leah rolls onto her side, toward Sam, lays her hand flat on his chest and kisses him. He looks into her eyes when she breaks the kiss.

"What's that for?" he says, his voice soft. He props himself up on his elbows.

"Do I need a reason?" says Leah, a smile twitching in the corners of her lips. She kisses him again, leaning into him with her hand still planted on his chest.

Sam closes his eyes and kisses her back, pressing his lips into her soft ones, tasting the beer they drank with lunch in her mouth. She scoots closer to him, right up against his side, and he hooks his arm around her. She throws her leg over his, runs her hand down his chest to his belly.

"Hey," Sam says, breathless as he breaks out of the kiss. "You sure you want to do this?"

She looks at him, her lips already swollen, her pupils dilated and her cheeks flushed. She nods.

"I don't have any condoms on me," Sam tells her. "There might be some in the truck but they're probably expired."

"It's okay," she says. "You haven't had unprotected sex with someone else since the last time we fooled around?"

Sam shakes his head.

"Neither have I."

She kisses him again and they start to make out. She slides on top of him, straddling his waist, and he lies flat on his back, his hands holding onto her hips. Her blonde hair hangs over her shoulders and around Sam's face, as she leans over him and kisses his mouth. Pretty soon she's unhooking her bikini top and tossing it aside, and Sam just looks up at her, marveling at the way she looks in the sun, her hair shining and her breasts free. She's forty years old, only a year younger than him, and still so beautiful.

They haven't done anything sexual in over a year. Sam has always allowed Leah to lead in their friendship, to decide if and when and how often they do anything physical or sexual, and he rarely initiates anything sexual between them. In the five years they've known each other, they've been sexual together only a handful of times and sporadically. One reason is they both have relatively low sex drives, Leah more so than Sam, and another reason is their lack of romantic interest in each other. They're close friends, they love and care for each other, and they have no wish to be a couple or to intertwine their lives more. Even if they had bigger sexual appetites, they'd be too cautious to have sex with each other on a regular basis, wanting to protect their friendship.

Sam flips them, laying Leah down on her own beach towel and pulling off her bikini bottom. He's getting hard but, ever the courteous lover, he's going to focus on her first. He kisses her as he runs his hand down her body, feeling her shiver at his touch. He kisses her neck, stroking her outer thigh as he does, then returns to her mouth as he fondles her breast.

He goes down on her until she comes, moaning and crying out unrestrained because they're miles away from company, and as soon as she's done, Sam strips off his board shorts and slots inside her, biting back a grunt of pleasure. He almost forgot how good sex feels, it's been so long.

He fucks her slow, his hulking frame shading her from the sun that heats his back. She wraps her legs around his hips, pulling him deeper in, and watches him, reaching up with both hands to caress his face and smooth his hair. He stays up on his hands for a while, then sinks down and buries his face in her neck, smelling the lake in her still-damp hair, lacing his hand into hers.

She hooks her arm around his side, presses her free hand to his back, rests her cheek against his head.

"Fuck," he whispers. "God, Leah."

"Sam," she says. "Keep going."

He starts to whine when he gets close, tearing his hand out of hers and tangling it in her golden hair, pumping into her faster. His ragged breathing turns into panting and gasps.

"Fuck, I'm going to come," he says as he lifts his head, his voice high-pitched and desperate. "Oh, my God. Shit."

Leah holds onto his shoulder with her left hand, the other still on his back, trying her best to keep her legs around him. "I've got you, Sam," she says. "I've got you."

A moment later, he drops his head and keens as he starts to orgasm, holding her head up to his shoulder and bucking his hips faster and erratic. Leah covers the back of his head with her hand, mirroring him, and bites his collarbone gently, holding it between her teeth. He whimpers and moans, riding the orgasm that seems to go on forever, and when it finally subsides and his thrusting peters out, he's trembling. Leah drops her legs, and he lies on top of her for a while, the two of them just catching their breath. She holds onto him and he rests with his face in her neck, his breath hot against her skin.

When he finally moves off of her, Leah gets up and walks into the lake still naked to wash herself off. Sam puts his shorts back on and watches her, smiling dopey in that post-sex glow. He really needed to get laid. He should probably do it more often, even if it means hooking up with women besides Leah, but he's never been as good or as motivated as Dean when it comes to finding casual sex. And now that they don't live on the road anymore, it's even harder to pull off. He'd have to leave town or join one of those hook-up websites in the hopes of finding women who don't live in Big Piney-Marbleton. At his age, it usually feels like more effort than it's worth.

When Leah returns from the water, Sam's waiting for her with one of the last clean towel. He wraps her up, then hugs her to him for a long time, the two of them standing in the midst of so much beauty. He kisses the top of her head, feeling grateful.

* * *

The Winchesters never cared about sports before Wyoming. Other than his childhood soccer days, Sam was only ever a casual viewer of college X during his Stanford years, and that's because Jess was a big fan who went to every game. Dean grew up utterly indifferent to sports, probably because hunting was all the sport a boy could handle. As an adult, he took Sam to the odd baseball game when they lived on the road, but Sam always got the impression that Dean only cared to go because their father used to like baseball.

Wyoming is one of twenty-four states in the union that doesn't have any major sports teams: no presence in the NFL, NBA, NHL, MLB, or MLS. Rodeo is Wyoming's most popular pro sport, and most of the natives are fierce supporters of the University of Wyoming's D-1 football team. Anyone who cares about the NFL in Wyoming is a Denver Broncos fan, and one way or another, Dean gets sucked into Broncos fanhood. Knowing Dean, Sam figures it's the sense of community that Dean loves more than anything: being a Broncos fan gives him something to talk about with people in town every time football season rolls around, something to get fired up about with his friends, gives him a way to make new friends. Sam watches him with a certain disbelief their first few years in Sublette County, teases Dean about how ridiculous he looks in the bright orange team jersey that cost some obscene amount of money, then eventually just takes to shaking his head whenever Dean shouts at the TV on game nights while he eats his dinner off a TV tray.

Their fifth year, the Broncos make it to the playoffs, and one of the bars in Big Piney-Marbleton with flat screen TVs decides to show every game live and make drinks half-priced on game days. Dean goes each week, the first three weeks. Sam goes with him the first game, mostly because he's so used to spending Sundays at home with his brother that he's not sure what he'd do alone, but decides that the whole scene is too rowdy for his taste. Too many people drinking and yelling about something he's not all that interested in. The following two games, Dean goes into town without him, and Sam stays home, reading and making himself dinner.

That fourth Sunday in the playoffs, they get snowed in. The long dirt path leading to their house from the highway disappears under six inches of powder, and the snow plow guy doesn't make house calls on weekends. Sam half-expects Dean to convince one of his football buddies who lives in town to come pick him up, considering the state performs same-day plowing on major public roads.

But a few hours before the game, Dean goes into the kitchen and starts pulling together food stuff. Sam wanders in when he hears the microwave going.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Making chili for dinner," says Dean. "And cornbread."

Sam lifts his eyebrows with a slight smile. "Yeah? What about the game?"

"Oh, I'm watching the game. That's why I'm starting this now, so I don't have to worry about it when the game's on. Besides, you know my chili needs plenty of time in the pot."

Sam sits at the kitchen table. "You're not going to try hitching a ride into town?"

Dean gives him a skeptical look. "You think anybody wants to drive all the way out here for my ass, just to drive back into town, then take me home later?"

Sam shrugs.

"No," Dean says, and shakes his head. "No, I'm just going to have to sit this game party out, man. But it's cool. I'm gonna make this chili, bake some corn bread, we got plenty of beer in the fridge, we can build a fire later... It'll be a good night."

Sam smiles. It does sound like a good night. He can't think of a better way to spend his Sunday night, in fact. "You want my help with anything?"

"Nah," Dean replies, taking the defrosted ground beef out of the microwave. "You go do whatever nerdy stuff it is you get up to when I'm not around. I got dinner covered."

Sam drains the mug of tea he brought with him from the library, then gets up and puts it in the sink. "Let me know if you change your mind," he tells Dean, before leaving the kitchen and padding down the house's main corridor in his extra thick socks that almost slip against the wood floor. He steps back into the library, which is actually half books and half supernatural hunting gear, and pauses to look over his desk where he was transcribing a set of active hunter's notes mailed to him and Dean into one of Sam's hunting notebooks. The notes, mailed from a post office in Biloxi, MS, are written on an assortment of crumpled and bent lined sheets of paper, a couple pages ripped off a yellow motel notepad, and the back of a gas station receipt. One of the pages has a coffee stain on it in the shape of a mug bottom, a few more have water stains, and there's a smear of unidentified condiment or food sauce on one of the yellow notepad sheets. The gas station receipt is wrinkled all over, the printed ink faded out and illegible in places, and it smells faintly of smoke. Sam promised the hunter, a man about ten years his junior, that he would type the notes up and email them to him, because the hunter didn't copy the notes into a computer or notebook of his own. Hunters have been sending Sam their work notes for a couple years now, ever since the hunter's website that the Winchesters run became a widely used resource. Sam copies them into notebooks for his and Dean's personal library and adds them to the online archive of hunting information. Dean teases that the website is just a glorified nerd project for Sam, but Sam lost count of how many emails he's received from hunters, thanking him for the site and telling him how much easier the job is because of it.

On the desk next to the notebook and pile of hunter's notes is Sam's personal hunter's journal. Like his father's, it a large, thick, leather-bound book with lined pages. Sam ordered it during his third year in Wyoming and he's been slowly filling it in ever since. Maybe it's weird that Sam only felt inspired to keep his own hunter's journal after he retired from the job, but that's the way it happened. All those years he and Dean hunted after Sam left college, they toted around John's journal like it was their own personal Bible, but neither one of them added to it or started their own. For that brief year they were together in between Jessica's death and John's death, Sam and Dean were students of their father's journal, and after John died, maybe they felt like it would've been sacrilegious to alter it because neither one of them ever did. When they discovered the Men of Letters bunker in Kansas, a hunter's journal seemed almost pointless in light of the huge library of supernatural information at their disposal. But once they moved to Wyoming, Sam realized that putting together his own hunter's journal was worth doing even if it served a different purpose than John's had served in Sam and Dean's early solo hunting careers. Even if all the information on supernatural creatures and how to kill them is already available in the MoL library, the remnants of Bobby's book collection, and John's journal, Sam still has his own perspective to hunting, his own memories and methods of research, self-protection, and killing. Even if no one else ever reads it or uses it, Sam's hunting journal has served as a therapeutic way to process the decades of his life he spent as a hunter in the field. Now he wishes that he'd kept a journal all along, throughout his hunting career.

Sam eyes his Kindle where he left it on the seat of the armchair and considers catching up on the latest novel he's been reading. The e-reader was actually a Christmas present from Dean a few years back, the most expensive model on the market at the time with all the bells and whistles. For some reason, Sam never bothered buying one for himself, even though it would've been the most logical option for pleasure reading material when he lived on the road with Dean. It would've come in handy even when they called the bunker home base. But then again, as much as Sam has always loved reading, he never seemed to have much time or mental energy for it when he was a full-time hunter. He spent enough time reading for the job, and when he had down time, he wanted to spend it zoning out in front of the TV or going to the movies or going for a long walk.

Sam grabs the Kindle and steps back out of the library, heading for the kitchen again. He can hear the radio before he reaches the front of the house, the one that plays old school country music he and Dean both listen to when they're in the mood for something out of their ordinary. It's a slow song playing, a man with a classic, lilting voice crooning to the woman he loves.

Sam sees Dean murmuring the words under his breath, as he stands at the counter and chops up an onion. He smiles, and Dean turns his head to look at him, lips and hand pausing.

"You mind if I read in here?" Sam says, holding up the Kindle a little bit.

Dean shakes his head. "Go ahead," he replies.

Sam settles back down at the kitchen table, in the chair facing the sink and his brother. He turns on the Kindle and finds his place in the novel he's reading. Dean turns the volume down on the radio without being asked, and Sam spends the next hour reading as Dean throws the chili ingredients into the crock pot and prepares the corn bread the way Bobby taught him.

They spend the afternoon on the couch in the front room, watching the Broncos play the Colts as the chili simmers. Their old green cooler that once belonged to John is on the floor between them, full of beer, and Dean doesn't even try to pace himself drinking. He's on his fourth bottle at halftime, and Sam is in too good of a mood to care. When the second half of the game starts, Dean's wearing his orange jersey, and Sam nuzzles his cheek into Dean's shoulder to tease him about the damn thing. Dean pokes him hard in the belly, and Sam shoves him good naturedly.

The Broncos win, and Dean hollers about it pretty good.

"Fuck yeah!" he shouts, on his way into the kitchen. "Super Bowl, baby!"

Sam withholds comment about the fact that the Broncos haven't made it there yet and just slouches into the couch under the blanket that he and Dean have been sharing. He's warm and buzzed and happy in that almost sleepy kind of way.

Dean comes back from checking on the chili, and all Sam can think as he looks at his brother in that stupid, bright orange jersey is, _I love you more than anything_.

"Is that dopey smile for the team, Sam?" Dean says, standing on the other side of the coffee table with beer number who knows in his hand. "You finally going to get off your nerdy high horse and admit that football is good times?"

"Jerk," Sam says, with all the affection one word could possibly hold.

"Bitch," Dean replies, and takes a drink.

They continue to camp out on the couch for the next couple hours, waiting for the chili to reach perfection. Dean sits in his spot, and Sam lies down with his head on Dean's thigh and his legs draped over the couch arm, covered in the blanket. Dean watches some ridiculous reality TV show that Sam barely listens to, and Sam shuts his eyes and almost dozes off when Dean starts to rub Sam's scalp with his fingers.

After dinner, when the brothers are cuddled up on the bearskin rug in front of the fire, drunk and well-fed, Sam falls asleep wishing that every moment of the rest of his life could feel like this one.

* * *

He knows he's dreaming as soon as he sees her: golden hair a halo reflecting the sunlight that streams through the kitchen windows, her eyes sparkling, white apron tied around her waist over the skirt of her floral dress. She's barely older than he is now, no less beautiful than she was in the last photos taken of her.

Mary.

She turns around to greet him where she's standing at the kitchen sink—Sam and Dean's kitchen sink, in Wyoming. She smiles at him, like he's the best thing that's ever happened to her. It chokes him up, the pure love she radiates for him. Sam's heart floods with peace and joy, the way it always does when he dreams of her, and some part of him never wants to wake up, wants to stay here with her and make up for a lost lifetime.

"Mom," he says. "What are you doing in here?"

"I just thought I'd give the kitchen a good clean," she says. "Before I bake Dean a pie."

Sam smiles. "What flavor?"

"I was thinking cherry... How was work? Did you slay any dragons?"

Sam has no idea why or where it comes from, but that's a phrase Mary routinely uses when he dreams about her. It always makes him want to laugh, because he's spent the better part of his life slaying dragons, and now in retirement, the worst of his problems is shoveling snow out of the driveway every winter and making sure the bills are all paid on time.

"Work was fine," he tells his mother.

It must be spring or summer because the front door of the house is wide open, the day is bright, and his mother's wearing a sleeveless dress.

"Come sit," Mary says, gesturing at the kitchen table where Sam and Dean eat their meals. "How about some iced tea?"

Sam pulls out a chair and sits at the table, watching as Mary takes a pitcher of iced tea out of the fridge and pours two glasses. She sits across from him, and they sip at their tea in silence for a moment.

"You know," she says, "your father would've loved it out here."

"Yeah?" says Sam.

Mary nods. "Yeah. Really. I bet he would've wanted us to get a second home close by, a vacation place—come out here every summer and harass you boys."

Sam smiles and ducks his head. "I don't think Dean and I would've minded. You know you're always welcome here."

"I know. I love it here too. It's so much more beautiful than Kansas. You and Dean have good taste."

She pauses to take another drink, and Sam just watches her. She's wearing her wedding ring and a necklace that Sam remembers from an old photograph. He can see his brother in her face, and it fills him with a tender ache.

"Hey, Mom," he says.

"Yes, sweetheart."

"You ever wish that Dean and I had different lives? That we were married with kids and had better jobs and all that?"

Mary looks at him and quirks the corners of her mouth up, her expression both affectionate and admonishing. "Sam. All I ever cared about was that you and your brother be happy and safe. Are you happy?"

"Yes," Sam says, after a beat. "I am. More than I ever thought I could be."

"Then, I'm happy," she says.

She reaches across the table, and he takes her hand in his.

"You have a beautiful home and a good, simple life," Mary says. "I look at Dean and I see how happy he is. You take such good care of him, and he takes good care of you. I couldn't ask for anything more."

Sam squeezes her hand, feeling his eyes well. "I wish you were around all the time," he says.

Mary smiles, the chain of her necklace and her hair and her wedding band glinting in the sunlight—touches of gold. "I'm pretty sure you and Dean would get sick of me. But you're sweet for wishing."

She lets go of his hand and drinks her iced tea, and Sam sits there, looking at her, wanting to tell her that he would never get sick of her. Neither would Dean.

Mary sets her glass down on the table and finds his eyes with her own, her face soft and the air in the kitchen laced with something almost magical—like she's in it, the essence of her, filling the whole house.

"Sammy," she says. "I don't know how someone as extraordinary as you came from me. I don't think I'll ever figure it out."

He wakes up before he can answer, finds himself lying in his bed with the bluish light of early dawn filtering softly through his window. The house is silent. He looks at the digital clock on his night table; Dean's not going to get up for another hour. Usually, they have breakfast together, even on mornings when Sam doesn't have to leave for work until after Dean.

Sam decides to stay in bed until his own alarm goes off. He closes his eyes and tries to remember how his mother looked in the dream. He wants to believe that if she were alive to see his and Dean's property, their town, their life, that she would love it. He wants to believe that his father would too. That both of his parents would be, if not proud, then happy for him and Dean—even if this little life they've built for themselves isn't the Happy Ending that everybody's supposed to want.


End file.
